


Justice

by ama



Series: Major Arcana [1]
Category: Death Note & Related Fandoms, Death Note (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Absent Parents, Alternate Universe, Angst, Brothers, Character Study, Dysfunctional Family, Family, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Loss, POV Near | Nate River, Universe Alteration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-13
Packaged: 2019-08-22 03:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16590224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ama/pseuds/ama
Summary: "Initially, I thought of introducing [Mello and Near] as L’s sons..." Tsugumi Ohba, How To ReadThis is a story about two brothers. No matter how fantastic or otherworldly it gets, that is what matters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In order to make this fic work, I fudged the timeline a little bit. L is 10 years older by necessity, Mello is one year older by preference (meaning the gap between him and Near is now about two years and eight months). I also threw the timing of the LABB case totally out of whack, but we’re just going to ignore that. The title is inspired by the God's Eye tarot project, in which artist angeltea drew [Near as the Justice card.](https://angeltea-arts.tumblr.com/post/177128805495/slams-head-on-keyboard-so-my-internet-cut-out)

Near only met his father face-to-face once in his life, and he doesn’t remember it. It was the day of his mother’s funeral. He was a quiet five-year-old who dragged his teddy bear behind him wherever he went, and people had whispered about him sympathetically. _Poor dear, he probably doesn’t understand what’s happening_. They were wrong, of course. He knew what death was. His brother told him.

An old man with grey hair and a moustache drove them home afterward, and there, in the living room, was their father. Near remembers entering the room and being introduced to him, and that he was sitting on the couch in an odd way, but he doesn’t remember what he looked like. When Near thinks of his father (not “L,” but “father”), he thinks of a birthday card that came with his favorite teddy bear. It had a bright yellow sunflower on the front and the pre-printed words “To my sunshine” on the inside. Written beneath that was _Happy Birthday, Nate_.

He remembers more about his mother. Platinum hair and big blue eyes. Always a little odd—even as a child, he could tell. She called him Nate and River interchangeably, and he didn’t understand the difference between surnames and given names for a long time. After all, his surname was not the same as his mother’s or his brother’s. His brother had asked her, once, why she had given them different names, and her answer had been vague.

“Is it because we’re bastards?” he had asked.

“No,” she said. “You’re not bastards, you’re brothers.” She had leaned close and whispered “It will make it harder for them to find you.” As a child, he thought this was just one of those silly things his mother said sometimes. Later, he realized that it was a shrewd instinct on her part, even if its efficacy was uncertain.

His parents are ghosts, drifting in and out of his mind, leaving no trace. Family, to him, means Mello.

He was Mihael, then. Mihael Keehl. He was almost three years older, and he was the one who took care of Nate. They lived in a small, two-bedroom apartment in Chicago, and their mother spent much of her time painting, either locked in her bedroom or out on the balcony. Sometimes she left the apartment entirely, and they didn’t know where she went or when she was coming back. Nate loved his mother, but he learned not to rely on her. He spent most of his time with Mihael.

Mihael was brilliant and brave and could do no wrong in Nate’s eyes—except for when he tried to cook hot meals from scratch and ended up burning them, which happened often. He could make sandwiches, though, and microwave meals, and sometimes they would go down to the Japanese takeout restaurant on the bottom floor of their building and sit at the one rickety table to share a meal. The owner liked them. He gave them discounts and taught them a few words of Japanese, here and there.

“You know what you call your big brother?” he asked Nate one day, wagging his finger.

“Mihael,” Nate answered.

“ _Iie_! Nichan is what you call your big brother, if you like him. You like your big brother, don’t you?” he chuckled.

“Hai,” he said shyly, and Mihael laughed and ruffled his hair.

Mihael was the one who taught Nate to read. It started with the card, on his third birthday. The package came through the mail, and Mihael quickly snatched it up and brought it to their room. He opened the box and handed Nate the bear, and then showed him the card.

“It’s from our father,” he said. “He sent me one, too, a while ago. But you can’t tell Mom where you got it.”

“Why not?”

“It gets her hopes up. She starts thinking that maybe he’ll come back again.”

“Maybe he will,” Nate suggested.

“No,” Mihael said. “He won’t.”

He spoke with all the surety and wisdom a five-and-a-half year old could possess, and Nate _knew_ he was telling the truth. He squeezed the teddy bear with one arm, and silently pointed at the writing in the card. Mihael knew what he was asking.

“It says ‘Happy birthday, Nate.’ N-A-T-E, that’s how you spell your name.”

There were lots of books in the apartment, stacked in tall piles here and there, and Mihael taught Nate how to read them. Their mother beamed and called them her clever boys, and the first time Nate finished a book on his own, she went to the Polish bakery down the street and bought a box of pączki—rich donuts, dusted with powdered sugar and stuffed with sweet fillings. Nate liked the custard ones and the ones with cinnamon apples, Mihael preferred the chocolate, and their mother preferred the strawberry jam.

Mihael was adventurous, and he liked to go wander the neighborhood on his own. Sometimes he dragged Nate along too, but once Nate learned to read, he stayed home more often. He would curl up with his bear and a book on the sofa, and when Mihael returned he would sit and listen to the elaborate tales he wove, which were often more interesting than the book. He always went with his brother to the laundromat, though. While they waited for the clothes to finish, Mihael would put Near in one of the carts and race around the room with him, laughing his head off. The laundromat owner didn’t like them as much as the restaurateur did.

That was how life went. On her good days, their mother cooked and paid the bills and gave them baths and did laundry and taught them lessons and took them to the movies. On her bad days, they did it themselves.

It was a good day, the day she died. Mihael declared that he wanted to go to morning mass. There was a church just two blocks away, and Mihael visited it two or three times a week. Nate didn’t know why—he didn’t like the hard pews or the reverberation of sound through the large room, but Mihael did.

“I’ll take you,” their mother said. Nate whined that he didn’t want to go, and his mother promised that they would just walk Mihael to the church and then come home.

Mihael rolled his eyes at that, and raced ahead of them in the street, but Nate and his mother faithfully saw him to the door. They went back to the apartment. She sat down on the couch and started to read _Treasure Island_ aloud, and Nate didn’t complain even though he had already read it. He listened to her soft, lilting voice until he fell asleep.

When he woke up, Mihael was screaming and their mother was dead.

He should remember how she died. If he can remember the address of the apartment and the taste of the miso soup the man downstairs made for them and the brown bloodhound eyes of the police officer who came to take them away, he should remember this. But he doesn’t. He wonders if this is his psyche protecting him; maybe his mother swallowed a fistful of pills before she died, and his mind refuses to retain this information. Maybe he had seen her have a stroke, and was so upset at his inability to help that he had buried it. Or maybe it was simply a heart attack, so mundane that people immediately fell back on the comforting euphemism of “she passed away,” and no one ever told him how.

He doesn’t remember much of meeting L, either. It was the end of a long day, and he was tired. Mihael was the one who spoke to him. They talked and ate cookies and drank hot chocolate, long past the time Nate fell asleep. He thinks he can remember resting against L’s knees, his face pressed against worn denim. The feel of a warm hand resting on his back, filling the space between his shoulder blades. That’s all.

Later in life, Mello bragged that he was one of the few at Wammy’s House—in the world, even—who had ever seen L face to face. He kept most of the details to himself, but he told Near, when he asked. He told him what he had looked like, how he moved, what his voice sounded like. He told him about the three stories L had shared. Even after they stopped speaking, sometimes Near would go to him and ask him about their father, and Mello always answered.

—

The day after their mother’s funeral, they were put on a plane to Winchester, England. That was when everything changed. That was when it became clear that their father, L, really _was_ the world’s greatest detective—a fact that delighted them beyond words, because it was very close to their old hope that their mysterious father might turn out to a secret agent. That was when they began their education. That was when Nate and Mihael became Near and Mello.

That was when everything went wrong.

When they were Nate and Mihael, there had been no need to compete, nothing to compete for, no standard by which they could be judged against each other. Mihael’s job had been to take care of his brother, and Nate’s had been to adore him for it. At Wammy’s House, everyone’s job was to be smarter than everyone else.

It didn’t happen all at once. Near was younger, after all. He learned quickly, but so did Mello; it took almost a year and a half before it became apparent that Near was learning at a quicker rate, and several months until he caught up. Slowly, things began to change.

At first, they would study together. Mello was quick to brag, but also to praise Near’s efforts. In their free time, they played games, or at least played close by each other even if their tastes diverged. They shared a bedroom. Sometimes they spoke in Japanese to each other—most students at Wammy’s spoke multiple languages, but Japanese was not an especially popular one, and they liked setting themselves apart like this. They weren’t stupid enough to tell anyone they were L’s sons. Most of the students didn’t even know they were brothers. But it was nice to have something that was _theirs_ , here in the midst of all these other people.

After a few years, though, Mello’s attitude changed. When they studied, Mello spoke less himself and didn’t always acknowledge Near. When he did give an answer, it was accompanied by snide comments or boasts that felt more mean-spirited than they used to be. The first few times this happened, Near was hurt. He didn’t understand what had changed. Then, one day, he snapped at Mello. They were pouring over a logic problem, and he was sure Mello was being deliberately obtuse.

“Stop being stupid,” he said. “This is taking too long.”

Mello’s face turned red.

“ _I’m_ being stupid?” he snarled. “You just want to stop studying so you can go play with your stupid dolls. What are you, three?”

He shoved the book at Near and stormed out of the library. Near looked down at the doll tucked in the corner of his arm. Wammy’s House had a lot of toys. He liked carrying them around. He liked having something to do with his hands. The other kids snickered at him sometimes, this was the first time Mello had ever said anything.

Neither of them apologized. They studied together for a few more months, mostly in silence. Near got more impatient. Mello got more resentful. One day, Near realized that they hadn’t studied in the same room for a full month. He decided it was for the best.

That spring, Mello spent more of his free time outside, playing football and tag and the elaborate hide-and-seek games favored by many of the kids at Wammy’s. Not that he had much free time—he was studying more than ever—but what little he had was pointedly spent as far from Near as possible. Near played with dominos and cards and puzzles, things that were more fun to do alone.

Soon Mello was sitting with someone new in class, and in the library, and at meals. His name was Matt. Sometimes Near sat with them at lunch, but it wasn’t the same. Mello didn’t even tell Matt that Near was his brother. Once Near addressed him as “nichan” and Mello snapped at him not to call him that.

“Don’t be a baby,” he rebuked later that night, when they were getting ready for bed. Near hadn’t said anything about it, but he was hurt, and Mello knew. “We had to stop eventually. It’s not safe.”

“You sound like _her_ ,” Near said in a waspish voice, because he knew Mello would be offended. In general, Near had fond memories of their mother, but he knew Mello thought she was selfish, paranoid, and irresponsible.

“Maybe she was right,” Mello said, surprising him. Near didn’t have a response prepared, so he ignored Mello and went to bed. He wanted his white teddy bear, but he had put it away in a drawer because he didn’t want the other boy to comment on it.

In the months following, several of the older kids left, and he noticed that the teachers were paying him and Mello more attention. The other students began to notice, too. They asked what he got on tests and wanted to see his answers, and praised him when he did well. Sometimes they compared his score to Mello’s.

When Near was nine years old, some of the students at Wammy’s sat down for comprehensive exams. They all knew why, although the teachers wouldn’t say. The students chosen for the exam were  the brightest and the most well-rounded. Not the ones whose sole passion was music, or literature, or mathematics. They were the ones who studied logic and psychology in great quantities—and everything else in moderation.

They were the ones who might one day succeed L.

The highest possible score on this test was 500. No one would get 500, the teachers assured them. They shouldn’t be concerned about their scores at all, as a matter of fact. The age of the students in the room varied widely—the youngest only seven, the eldest fifteen—and they all had different specialties. The results would not be used for any particular purpose. It was just to get a sense of their progress.

Nobody believed them. The library was packed for a week—Mello and Near took to studying silently in their room. They sat the exam for several hours, and it was a week before the results were announced. A teacher stood in the largest parlor with a stack of papers and called out each student’s name. Naturally, each person was immediately mobbed by friends wanting to know their score. Some, redfaced, left the room quickly, clutching the paper to their chest so no one would see a mark below 250. Most earned something between 330 and 390, which they were content with once it became clear that this was the average. But a handful did manage to break 400—Matt got a 422, and Mello gave him a congratulatory shove.

When the teacher called Mello’s name, he sauntered over like he hadn’t a care in the world, but his face was almost green. He snatched the paper from her hand and his eyes flew down the page.

“488!” he crowed, waving the paper triumphantly over his head. A crowd of students rushed at him all at once, talking excitedly, but Mello’s gaze passed right over them to settle on Near. His eyes gleamed.

Near’s lips twitched in a smile. He had always known Mello was smart. Naturally, he was proud of his brother.

Then the teacher called his name, and the voices in the room went quiet. Near shuffled up to the front and accepted the sheet of paper. There was a long table on it, breaking down his results for each section of the test, including comments regarding some of the more subjective sections. At the bottom was the final score.

Again, the students rushed to form a circle around him, and again, they were all ignored. Near looked up and met Mello’s gaze. Mello stomped towards him, pushing one boy out of the way, and Near placidly handed over the sheet of paper so Mello could see the number printed in the bottom right corner: 497.

Mello wrenched his eyes off the page and glared at Near. Near couldn’t help it—he smirked.

Mello shoved the paper against Near’s chest and stormed out of the room. An hour later, when Near returned to their bedroom, it had been stripped bare. The bed was made. Mello’s school supplies, his candy stash, his posters, his statuette of the Virgin Mary, his personal books, his CDs, his clothes… all gone. Even the trash can was empty.

Near sat down on his bed and stared at the empty side of the room for a long time. He took the stuffed bear out of the bureau and squeezed it as hard as he could, and then returned it to the drawer. He picked up the sheet of results again and read it over with a satisfied smile on his face.

—

At Wammy’s, they got messages from L all the time. Four times a year, Roger would call them into his office and hand them a letter, and they huddled together to read it at the same time. Sometimes it was many pages, sometimes no more than two or three lines. And every Halloween, Roger would turn the computer to face them and then leave the room. A black L would appear on the white screen, and the three of them would talk.

Neither the letters nor the conversations were particularly intimate. L talked about his work and asked detailed questions about their studies. Everything else was… small talk. L wanted to know how they liked living at Wammy’s, and told them about the places he had traveled, and sometimes they discussed the news, if anything interesting had happened lately. He and Mello once got into a forty-minute argument about the best type of cake. They never asked L for personal information, and he never offered any.

After Mello moved out of their bedroom, the meetings in Roger’s office were the only time they spoke civilly to each other—and even then, only if they focused most of their attention on L. No longer did they discuss the letters together, pointing out interesting anecdotes or speculating on what a sentence might imply. They pored over each one in silence, and if it was long, Mello flipped the pages quickly to prove that he was the faster reader.

The year that Near turned twelve, they sat in Roger’s office on Halloween for two hours and never looked at each other.

“Is anything wrong?” L asked in his gentle voice. “You’re both awfully quiet tonight.”

“No, we’re not,” Mello answered. Near shook his head.

“Very well. That’s enough for tonight—Happy Halloween.”

The screen blinked off. Near was almost done with a puzzle, so he remained crouching on the floor, slotting the pieces into place. He heard the door open, but not close—when he looked up, Mello was looking over his shoulder, staring at the empty room with a frown tugging at his lips.

“Mello?”

Mello didn’t respond. He shrugged, turned around, and walked away. They didn’t speak for the next thirty-four days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you can spot the other manga/anime referenced in this chapter, you get all the points and also please come talk to me about the amazing crossover potential.

“Wake up!” Mello says when he bursts into Near’s bedroom at 7:25 AM on December 4th.

“I’m not asleep.”

“You’ve got to see this,” Mello declares.

He grabs Near by the arm and drags him away from the crowd of toy soldiers he was playing with—Near manages to keep hold of the two in his hands. He stumbles after Mello down the hallway, and they run downstairs to a small parlor. Around them, students are waking up and heading for breakfast. Mello ignores them makes sure to slam and lock the door. There’s a TV in the room with a game system hooked up, although the screen is playing the BBC News, and two laptops on the coffee table. Matt is there, with his eyes riveted to one of the computer screens. Snack wrappers and cans of energy drinks litter the space around the couch. It’s obvious that they’ve been up all night.

Mello flings himself onto the couch, and Near joins him. There is a man on the screen, sitting at what looks like a news desk, with a plaque in front of him that reads _Lind L. Tailor._ He speaks in English, but there is a simultaneous translation into Japanese that muffles his words.

“We were watching cartoons on Japanese TV—the original audio is better and subtitles are _so_ annoying—and this interrupted it. At the beginning they said it was an international broadcast, but look.” Matt points at the BBC. “It’s not.” He reaches out and taps at the keyboard of the second laptop. Dozens of news channels, all in different languages, flicker by. “It’s only airing in Japan.”

“So?” Near says, mostly to be annoying. He’s the smartest kid at Wammy’s House. He noticed the initial.

“So, he introduced himself as L,” Mello says. There’s an excited gleam in his eye. “ _It’s not him_.”

Something is happening. They settle down to watch.

“I will definitely catch the one behind the murders, commonly known as Kira,” Lind L. Tailor is saying. “Kira, I have a pretty good idea behind your motive and why you’re doing this. But what you’re doing is evil.”

There is a pause to let the words sink in.

“He’s talking about the criminals having heart attacks,” Matt says. “All those heart attacks, he thinks they’re murders. L has to be behind this, right? There’s no way someone would go on TV claiming to be L without his approval.”

“Of course,” Mello says. “But the question is…”

“...why have anyone go on TV in the first place?” Near murmurs, playing with a lock of his hair. Mello shoots him an annoyed glance. “He’s never done this before. And if Kira can somehow orchestrate killings all over the world without leaving a trace, the only thing he’s doing is—”

The three of them gasp. Lind L. Tailor, in the middle of a sentence about respecting the authority of ICPO and established governments, clutches his heart and collapses over his desk. Two men appear to carry the body away—and then the screen cuts off, and is replaced by an image they all know very, very well.

“Ha,” Mello says with a grin.

“Unbelievable. I had to check to be sure—who would have thought you could have done this? Kira, it seems you can kill people without direct contact. I couldn’t believe it before seeing it with my own eyes.”

L explains that Lind L. Tailor was a criminal set for execution, and notes that even Kira couldn’t figure out this secret—that he is not an omniscient being, not a god, despite the impossible murder they have all just witnessed. The three boys all lean closer to the laptop, their eyes fixed on the screen. Near realizes that he’s squeezing his toy soldiers so hard that he is warping the plastic.

“But I, L, do exist!” the scrambled voice declares. “So come on—try and kill me!”

“How long was the original broadcast?” Near asks sharply.

“Two minutes and eleven seconds,” Matt answers. “But it took thirty-five seconds for him to mention which case he was investigating.”

“One minute and thirty-six seconds…” Mello says. “If he’s still alive after that…”

L keeps talking, taunting Kira. Mello and Near are familiar with the scrambled voice, and they can tell he is satisfied when the time has elapsed.

“I’ll tell you something good in return,” he says to Kira. “I told you that this is a live broadcast worldwide, but this is only being broadcast in the Kanto region of Japan.”

“We knew that already,” Matt says smugly as L explains his reasoning.

“It won’t be long before I can sentence you to death,” he says in a calm, almost casual voice. “I’m interested in how you commit these murders, but I’ll find that out when I catch you. Until we meet again, Kira.”

The stylized L disappears from the screen. There are a few moments of static, and then a cartoon starts playing as if nothing happened. Matt quickly types something on the keyboard and switches to a Japanese news channel, where two anchors are remaking on what just happened, but Mello and Near aren’t interested.

“Kira is an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Mello agrees, taking a bite of his chocolate bar. “If he had left it alone, L wouldn’t have anything to go on except that first killing. He just _had_ to prove he was better.”

“Not that we would know anything about that,” Near says piously. He smirks, and Mello snorts in amusement.

Near places his two slightly-bent army toys on the table and faces them off against each other.

“Pew,” he mutters, and knocks one onto its back. Kira doesn’t stand a chance.

—

Soon, Kira is all anyone will talk about. Before, only five students at Wammy’s could speak Japanese: Near and Mello, Matt (who learned from Mello), and two boys who went by Oliver and Gene (twin brothers, who are Japanese themselves). Afterwards, it seems like everyone is trying to learn it at the same time, and there is always at least one TV in the orphanage playing a Japanese news show.

Near and Mello eagerly await L’s December letter, which comes a week after Mello’s birthday, two weeks after the first news broadcast. It is short, just under a page long, but cheerful. L writes that he is not surprised that Mello and Near saw the broadcast live, and teases them about their eagerness to keep up with the case. He believes he is making progress.

_Something about this case worries me, however…_ he writes, towards the end. _No—everything about this case worries me. Kira doesn’t leave any evidence on or around the bodies of his victims. Does he leave evidence at all? I don’t know. I must act as though he does, or my efforts may be futile. That is not my greatest worry, though. Every investigation boils down to the question of evidence._

_Normally, when I work a case, I feel like I am hunting the murderer, and the murderer is either looking at me over his shoulder or completely oblivious to my presence. In this case—I feel like the murderer might staring right back at me._

Immediately, though, L changes the subject. He reiterates the progress he has made, wishes them a happy Christmas, and tells them a little bit about Christmas in Japan. It’s very different than it is in England. He does not think Watari will be able to find him a Christmas pudding.

“Blegh,” Mello says when they’re finished reading. “Who wants to eat Christmas pudding anyway?”

“Sticky toffee pudding is better,” Near says with a nod.

“ _Barely_.”

“Some of us like puddings better than chocolate, Mello.”

“Yeah, freaks like you…”

They bicker about it as they leave the room.

Another letter comes in February, and another in May, and another in August. They are all short and vague, but Near and Mello don’t read much into that. Near turns thirteen. He and Mello still fight often, but their interest in the Kira case—even when it drags on and on and on and fades into the background of most people’s minds—seems to bind them together more closely than before. On his birthday, Near opens his bedroom door to find a small box of pączki on the floor in front of him. Two custard, two apple.

Mello doesn’t say anything, and Near doesn’t say anything, but he has one pączek for breakfast, one with lunch, and one after dinner, and he thinks he spots Mello smiling to himself on the other side of the dining room.

Overall, things are good. Near still has lessons, and tests, and games to occupy his attention. He is interested in the Kira case, but the problem doesn’t seem as urgent in the UK as it does in Japan. And besides, he knows L is going to solve it soon. L always wins.

—

It’s Halloween. Mello and Near both rush into the room quicker than usual, and Mello is so full of energy that he doesn’t sit down. They’ve been watching recent Japanese coverage of the Kira case whenever they can; they saw the Sakura special live, and every second of speculation regarding its sudden end and the subsequent police blockade of a major highway. Mello asks a dozen questions in quick succession, and Near yanks at his hair and leans forward.

But L doesn’t respond.

“L?” Mello asks. “Are you there?”

“Yes.”

L falls silent again. Mello glances at Near, who shrugs his shoulder. After a few minutes of silence, Mello sits down on the floor beside him. They don’t take their eyes off the screen. In the hallway outside, they can hear other students stomping past, talking loudly and laughing and making monster noises, enjoying the Halloween party in the foyer and the big living room. Roger turned on the desk lamp, but the overhead light is off, and the room gets darker as twilight turns to night.

At seven o’clock, the bells start to ring.

“Do you hear them?” L asks.

“The bells?” Near says.

“Yes. Are they ringing now?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah.” L pauses. “I haven’t heard them in a long time.”

“Did you catch Kira?” Mello demands.

“I think not. Perhaps soon. I’m glad we were able to have this meeting,” he says, changing the topic before they can ask any more questions. “I haven’t had much privacy these past few months. I thought we might have to skip it.”

“You’ve been working with the Japanese police in person?”

“Yes. It’s been quite interesting… are they still ringing?”

“No,” Near says. “They’ve stopped now.”

“They were ringing the very first day I arrived at Wammy’s. It was snowing. I thought it was the most peaceful and the most beautiful place I had ever seen.” Near and Mello are so quiet that they’re barely breathing. “Have you enjoyed your time there?”

Neither of them respond. Mello looks away. Near looks down at his latest puzzle—a black to white gradient, hopelessly easy—and slots in another piece.

“That’s unfortunate,” L sighs. “The Halloween party must be in full swing. Why don’t you go enjoy yourselves?”

“But…” Mello protests, and then he stops himself. He doesn’t want L to know that he’s hurt. As if his every emotion isn’t broadcast on his face for all to see. “I guess you’re still busy.”

“Yes, I am. But we will speak soon—when Kira is captured and executed. I promise.”

Mello and Near both nod. Near is still working on his puzzle, but he hears the connection end.

This is the last Halloween.

—

Roger calls them into his office just over a month later. They’re expecting a letter from L, but Roger doesn’t produce it right away. He sits at his desk with his hands folded and his head bowed.

“What is it, Roger?” Mello asks.

“L is dead.”

The whole world goes quiet and still. All of Near’s senses zero in on the puzzle pieces cupped in his hand. He’s almost done with the puzzle, except for the L in the top corner.

“What did you say?” Mello snaps. “Say it again!”

“L is dead.”

“ _Dead_?” Mello slams his hands on the desk. “Why? Did Kira kill him? Is that it?”

“Probably…”

Near slots the pieces into place.

“He said that he would get Kira executed! He promised!” he yells, grabbing Roger by the shoulders.

“Mello!” Roger rebukes.

Near fits the last piece. His stomach churns. It’s all over—it was all worthless. He lifts the frame over his head and lets all the pieces fall, clattering to the ground in front of him. The sound startles Mello; he turns and stares at Near like he doesn’t know him.

“If you can’t win the game, if you can’t beat the puzzle… then you’re just a loser.”

This makes sense to him. More sense than any of the other options. If L was crossing the street one day and was hit by a car—if a doctor found cancer cells spreading too rapidly to stop—Near would be rattled by that. Someone like L, someone larger than life, shouldn’t _forfeit_ the game. That’s not supposed to happen. But losing? Well.

Someone always loses.

Mello’s lip curls in disgust, and he turns back to Roger.

“Me or Near?” he demands. “Which one of us did L…?”

“He sent another letter…”

He hands over a manila envelope. Mello snatches it and yanks out two sheets of paper. He looks like he’s going to read it right away, standing in front of Roger’s desk, so Near reaches up and tugs roughly at the baggy fabric of his shirt. Mello kneels down so Near can read over his shoulder.

_M and N,_

_If you are reading this, I am dead, and I owe you an apology._

_Ever since you were born, I have done almost everything in my power to keep you safe, but I have let my selfishness get in the way. Lies and secrecy, secrecy and lies—this is your inheritance. If I were a better father, I would be able to call you by your names now, at the very end. I would be able to give you the comfort that children deserve from their parents, or to ensure that you would never need such comfort._

_In truth, if I were a better father, I would not know you at all. I ought to have given you up to real families who would love you and raise you in the normal way, but I knew that you would not be normal children, and so I have justified everything..._

_Still. At this point I have done all that I can. You have received the best education anyone could provide. You know your own names and you know each other’s names, and that is all. Enclosed is the only photograph of you in existence. There is no digital connection between the three of us, and if you have followed my instructions, no previous letters will be found. When I finish writing this letter, it will be sent to my safe deposit box, along with instructions for Roger and the photograph, and if I fail to log into my private computer system for thirty days, everything in it will be sent to Wammy’s House. Has been sent. Such a confusion of tenses._

_You are hoping to learn which one of you will be named as my successor. I will not choose. I never intended to choose. I would apologize for deceiving you, but you should know by now that I am a liar._

_My first reason is that circumstances regarding the Kira case have changed. I now believe that if my death is allowed to play out without interference, the results could prove pertinent to the investigation. Furthermore, naming a successor may compel that person to confront Kira prematurely, and I want to reassure you that there is no shame in working in the shadows until the monster can be defeated._

_My second reason, though less topical, is more substantial. I believe that my strength as well as my weakness comes from having been alone. And neither of you can know how that feels, can you? You have never been alone. You have circled each other, adapting to each other. Mello with your too-thorough knowledge of what the world is like and your determination to conquer it. And Near, sheltered, perhaps ignorant of the world but also not limited by its fallacies. I have noticed that you grew apart when I sent you to Wammy’s. I thought this might be a good thing, that it might increase your independence, but now I think otherwise.. It well may be that there can be no one successor to L. Perhaps there must be two, or none._

_Even if you decide that working together is intolerable, I will not choose between you. You are both my sons. You are both my legacy._

_I do not know what shape this legacy will take, but I am willing to accept my own ignorance in this matter and leave it in your hands. I suppose this is my way of showing that I love you, no matter how inadequate that may be. And besides, if I am smart enough, you will never receive this._

_L_

The moment he reads the last sentence, Mello throws the letter onto the floor—Near snatches it up almost as quick—and stands up. He says something to Roger; Near doesn’t hear what it is. He stares at the last two sentences of the letter and feels a lump in his throat.

He sets the letter down on the carpet and picks up the manila envelope. He turns it over and the photograph slips out. It is the two of them kneeling in the playground at Wammy’s. Near is hunched over, playing with a train and a blindfolded action figure and ignoring the camera. Mello is straight-backed, grinning at the camera against a background of yellow-leaved trees.

Near turns the photo over. There are two words at the bottom, written in a messy scrawl: _my boys_. It’s the same handwriting as the message in his birthday card, which was burned when he gave up the name _Nate_ for good.

Roger suggests that they work together. Near agrees, although his voice comes from a distant place. There must be two.

Mello disagrees. It’s impossible, he says. The room is silent.

“It’s fine, Roger,” Mello says in an eerily calm voice. “Near should succeed L. Unlike me, Near will solve this unemotionally, like a puzzle. I’m leaving this—place.”

“Mello!” Roger objects.

“I’m almost sixteen, anyway. I should have left a long time ago. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

He shuts the door behind him. Near puts the photograph in his pocket and stands up. He holds out the letter.

“Burn this, please.”

“I will,” Roger says with a nod. He pulls a lighter out of a desk drawer and holds the edge of the paper against the flame. This is what he’s done with every letter L has ever sent. “We can set up a room for you in the north wing, with more privacy,” he promises. “You can operate as L from there, and I can assist you while running the orphanage.”

“No,” Near says, gathering up the puzzle pieces. “I won’t be succeeding L.”

“Near—!”

“If there can’t be two, there must be none.”

He goes up the stairs and heads right to Matt and Mello’s room. Matt isn’t there, but Mello is just coming out, with a backpack in his hand.

“Are you going to the United States?”

“What do you care?” Mello asks, hoisting his backpack onto his shoulder.

“That’s where I want to go.”

“Stay here, Near. Roger can get you set up. You can’t come with me.”

“I don’t want to come with you,” Near says honestly. “I just don’t want to fly by myself.” Mello casts him a look, both dubious and scornful. Near reaches out and grasps the edge of his sleeve. “Please, nichan.”

“Don’t call me that,” Mello says automatically, yanking his hand back. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other and sighs. “Five minutes. If you’re late, I’m not waiting for you.”

Near doesn’t take five minutes. He packs one change of clothes, his toothbrush, a deck of cards, a toy robot, and a 3D puzzle. The photo stays in his pocket. He opens the bottom drawer of his bureau and picks up his old teddy bear. Its fur is matted and has started to turn grey, and one eye is hanging off by a thread. He holds it close for a moment, and then he sets it down in the center of the bed and closes the door behind him.

—

The flight is long, but they don’t speak for most of it. They watch the news on the little TV screens and deplete the flight attendants’ store of snacks.

When they disembark, though, they linger for a moment, standing in the middle of the terminal and staring at each other. Their expressions are blank, and Near thinks they actually look very similar, in the end. The same nose, the same line of their mouths, the same dark eyes. It’s their hair that makes them look different, and Mello’s volatile emotions, and their clothes. One in black and one in white. Window dressing.

They’re orphans again. They are back in the United States for the first time since their mother died, but they are about to part, maybe forever. Near is going to stay in the airport until a car comes to take him to a hotel suite, all paid for out of his trust fund. Mello, after buying the plane tickets, left all of that behind. He has a couple of dollars in his pocket, and he’s going to walk out of the airport and hail a cab, or hitchhike, or steal a car, or just keep walking until he disappears.

“Don’t be an idiot,” Near says. “Don’t get killed by Kira.”

“I’m not going to get killed,” Mello scoffs. “I’m going to win.”

Near can’t help it. He flips a lock of hair between his fingers and smirks.

“Not if I win first.”

For a second, Mello’s eyes flash with anger, but then he gives a grudging smile in return and punches Near in the arm. He takes one step back. Suddenly, without warning, he steps forward again and throws his arms around Near and squeezes him tightly. Near doesn’t like being hugged, even by his brother, but he tolerates this. He knows it will be short.

“Bye,” Mello mumbles, and then he releases Near and turns on his heel.

He doesn’t look over his shoulder again. He sticks one hand in his pocket and struts down the long, crowded hallway. His shoulders are thrown back, like Wammy’s was a weight around his neck that is now gone. A sense of foreboding overtakes Near. He wonders if he and Mello will ever meet again… and if he’ll recognize him when they do.


	3. Chapter 3

The next time he sees his brother face to face, they no longer look alike. Mello is almost twenty-one. He is taller and leaner than before, and has traded in soft cotton for tight leather than emphasizes this fact. His jawline is sharper and his eyes are harder. And there’s the scar. It covers the entire left side of his face and extends down his neck, past the collar of his shirt. It’s red, rough, and barely healed—he should probably be in a hospital.

 _The mark of Cain_ , Near thinks. Maybe that’s why, when Mello pulls a gun on him, he calmly invites Mello to pull the trigger.

He doesn’t, of course. He wouldn’t have even without Lidner’s intervention. Cain and Abel has never been their story.

(Esau and Jacob—the hunter and the usurper.)

“I just came to retrieve the photograph,” Mello says as he lowers the gun.

“Of course.”

Near holds it out and peers over his shoulder to watch Mello’s reaction as he explains that there are no copies. He cut himself out of the photo years ago, of course. It’s now only a small snapshot of Mello from the shoulders up. He kept it because he knew that eventually Mello would come asking for it, and wouldn’t trust that Near had really destroyed it if he had nothing to hand over.

That’s the truth. He didn’t keep it for sentimental reasons.

The new caption, though… that was sentiment. Near had figured that so long as he needed to keep the photo, he might as well label it. Why not? L had done it. The original caption read _my boys_ , but that had been lost when Near cut away the bottom half. Now it reads _Dear Mello_.

Mello expresses no surprise when he takes the photo, but his eyes twitch a little when he turns it over.

“Is that the only business you had with me, Mello?” Near asks. He doesn’t turn around; he doesn’t trust his face at the moment. He can see Mello’s reflection in one of the screens in front of him, and he watches it carefully.

“Near… I have no intention of working with you.”

“I understand.”

“But it would upset me to take the photo and leave, so I’ll give you something in return. The killer notebook belongs to a shinigami. Whoever touches it can see a shinigami.”

Near glances over his shoulder. The other members of SPK express their disbelief, but Near looks at his brother with narrowed eyes. Mello/Mihael taught him almost all of the irrefutable truths about life. Things like _our father is never coming back_ and _everything dies eventually_ and _we can’t rely on anyone except ourselves._ He doesn’t believe every word that comes out of Mello’s mouth, but some truths are irrefutable.

“I believe him,” he says, turning back around with a shrug. “What good would it be for Mello to tell a lie like that? He would at least tell a better one, something that sounds believable. So, shinigami must exist.”

“The notebook I had belonged to someone else before me. Maybe Kira. And some of the rules inside were fake. That’s all I can say.”

He hears the tap of Mello’s boots on the floor as he begins to walk away, but Near has one more question. They speak at the same time.

“Near—”

“Mello—”

“Which of us is going to reach Kira first, I wonder?” Mello asks. There is a soft snap as he takes a bite of his chocolate, and Near can picture his expression—his eyes bright and a grin on his face, twisting the mess of scar tissue. Near smiles to himself.

“The race is on.”

“Our destination is the same. I’ll be waiting for you there.”

Near looks over his shoulder again. Mello is staring straight ahead, but he hasn’t moved to leave just yet.

“Do you hear them?” he asks. Lidner and Rester exchange a confused glance. Near’s gaze is fixed on Mello, who bows his head.

“Yes,” he says.

The bells are ringing again.

—

After that, something shifts. Mello claims that they aren’t working together, but Near isn’t sure if he agrees. It was Mello’s kidnapping of the director that first exposes the level of cooperation between Kira and the Japanese police, and Mello’s tip about the fake rule that narrows Near’s suspicions even further. Perhaps that was accidental—but now, on the run, lacking in resources, Mello seems to be lying low and allowing Near to take action. No, pushing him to take action. Mello sends Mogi to the SPK headquarters, and they even have fun trying to provoke him—and fake L—together.

Near continues to feed Lidner information to give Mello, and he appreciates knowing that Mello is keeping an eye on Misa Amane and the Japanese task force. He doesn’t trust that Mello would tell him about anything he observes, unless they somehow comes close to seeing Near’s face; no matter what happens between them, Near is confident that his brother would warn him about that. Just knowing there is someone else watching, someone who can more or less keep up with him, makes him feel better about the whole investigation.

He taunts the fake L, and plays with his toys, and begins to piece together the puzzle.

He’s actually starting to enjoy himself.

—

When it happens, Near is surprised and not surprised. No, that’s not true—it is more accurate to say that Near was always expecting something like this, and accepted it as a matter of course. But Nate… the small part of him that remains… never really believed it could happen. Nate is devastated.

He watches every moment of it live. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Takada get out of her car, although most of his attention is on his action figures. He looks up when he hears the screech of the tires. The quality of the film is poor—it’s just a security camera—but he gets a glimpse of the driver’s face before a smoke grenade goes off.

_Matt?_

When the smoke clears, a motorcycle is zooming away with two people riding it. Near doesn’t need the call from Lidner to know it’s Mello and Takada.

 _What are you doing, Mello?_ he thinks. _You must know about my plan… are you trying to get to Kira first by leveraging Takada somehow? It’s unlikely she would reveal any information to you, and X-Kira can easily kill her with the notebook if you pose any real threat._

_Or is winning not your goal at the moment—are you just trying to make sure I lose? The Japanese task force won’t meet with me if they think I had Takada kidnapped. But we’ve already replaced the pages in the Death Note with fake ones. If the meeting is called off…._

But he can’t contact Mello, so he just waits and watches the news coverage. Matt has chosen a big red muscle car, naturally, and the news helicopters are able to find it and follow it easily as he races through the Tokyo streets. After a while, Near decides to call Light Yagami. The line is still ringing when Takada’s bodyguards unload their guns into Matt. Near winces at the sound.

The phone call with Light Yagami is brief, and then, again, he has nothing to do. He pulls up maps of Tokyo, its outlying suburbs, and the whole of Japan, wondering where Mello might be going. He mulls over dozens of different plans and the different ways they might impact his own.

At a quarter to 2 the following afternoon, Lidner informs him that Takada’s cell phone has been turned on and that she is on her way to its location. Near affirms her decision and asks for an update as soon as possible. There is something significant about this information, but he can’t place it.

Forty-five minutes later, she calls back.

“Near… I’m at the scene. There’s a fire. Mello and Takada—”

Quick as lightning, his hand darts out to push the button that ends the call.

 _Which one of them?_ he wonders. Light Yagami or Teru Mikami? No, it doesn’t matter who did it, in the end. It’s Kira. It all comes back to Kira.

He is sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, and he stays like that for a long, long time. He doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t play with any of his toys. Doesn’t turn on the news. Doesn’t bother to wipe at the tears that fall down his cheeks—doesn’t even notice that he’s crying, actually, until he realizes that his collar is wet. The room is silent and still until Commander Rester returns.

“Near, Lidner told me about Mello—”

“Mihael Keehl,” Near murmurs, but Rester is putting down a bag of supplies and doesn’t hear him clearly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

It doesn’t matter anymore. What were his parents’ names? He frowns to himself and tries to remember. His mother—she was a Keehl, too, wasn’t she? No… Keehl was a family name, he thinks, her mother’s maybe, but not hers. She was a Juric. That’s right. Sofia Juric. Mihael Keehl. Nate River. And… L.

What a family. Three-quarters dead. Half murdered. Three of them living and dying under aliases. God.

He’s not listening to Commander Rester, but he is shaken out of his thoughts when the phone line rings and displays Gevanni’s initial.

“Yes, Gevanni?”

“Near! A few hours ago, around the same time we learned of Takada’s location, Mikami went to the bank for the second day in a row and visited a safe deposit box. He was acting suspiciously, so after the bank closed I went back to check his box— _and I found another notebook!_ ”

“Another notebook?” Near repeats, head snapping up. His brow furrows in confusion—is there a third notebook? Is it possible the task force lied about getting rid of the one they took from Mello?—and then his eyes widen and his jaw goes slack.

The notebook is a fake.

It’s a _fake_. That’s why Mikami was so cavalier about using it in public—that’s why he muttered to himself about not having a shinigami. At least one of the rules in the Death Note is a lie… if there are two, if the rule about tearing the Note isn’t real, then is it possible to kill with a torn-out page…? Yes—yes, it must be. Mikami doesn’t need to carry the notebook, he could have been killing with pages he’s torn out. Maybe he wasn’t even the one carrying out the killings; maybe he was only the decoy. Kiyomi Takada was the most powerful woman in Japan, of course she would be able to arrange for enough privacy to write names using pages of the notebook, while the real thing sat in the safety deposit box of a bank no one thought to look in. The notebook is a fake!

“Gevanni,” he says sharply. “Is it possible for you to make a copy of the notebook from the bank?”

“A copy? But—”

“There is a high probability that the notebook we altered previously was a fake planted by Light Yagami and Mikami. No—it _must_ have been a fake. Takada has been carrying out the killings—there is no way for either Mikami or Light Yagami to have seen Mello’s face, so he must have been killed by Takada, and then Mikami killed her to hide that fact.”

“Near, I saw Mikami use the notebook on the subway with my own eyes!”

“ _Why_? We knew that Mikami was a meticulous, careful, methodical person—why did we never suspect the fact that he was using the notebook in public? Why did we never seriously ask why he was carrying around the notebook at all? _Why didn’t we test it?_ ”

Rester looks at him with alarm, and Gevanni is silent, and Near realizes that his voice was unusually angry. He looks down at the floor to obscure his expression, and reaches for the nearest object. It’s the Mikami finger puppet from his collection. He squeezes it in his fist.

“We couldn’t have tested the Death Note,” Rester says. “We would be killing someone—and if Mello was wrong or lying about the 13-day-rule, we would be putting ourselves at risk. You know this, Near.”

It’s wrong to kill people. That’s not how L would do this. The only way they could test it and satisfy their morality is by using death row inmates, but without the official support of any government, that is impossible—and even if it weren’t, it would take too long and involve too many people learning of the notebook. He does know this. He knows it, he believes it, but _Mello_ would have tested it. The first thing Mello did when he saw the other notebook was test it, and Mello is _dead_ because he knew this notebook needed to be tested. Mello had been smarter than him—and had lost because of it.

Mello is dead.

Near takes a deep breath.

“We’re supposed to meet Light Yagami in two days,” he says, voice calm again. “Can you make a copy of the notebook before then?”

“I… think so. If we replace the whole notebook, it should be easier because he won’t have anything to compare it to. It is a risk, but—I will try. I will need to get supplies from a speciality store, and it would be easier if the bank were empty...”

“I understand. At the close of day tomorrow, then. Please try your best.”

He ends the call and sets the finger puppet aside.

“Near, it’s getting late,” Rester says. “Perhaps you should try and sleep for a little while.”

“No thank you.”

“The next few days are going to be—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupts.

Rester falls silent, but his eyes linger. Near doesn’t look up at him. Anthony Carter has a stepson just a few years older than him, he knows, and their relationship has been strained since Carter’s partner died. He probably has dozens of platitudes about grief stored in his mind, and a strong parental instinct that has no outlet. Near has absolutely no interest in bonding over this.

“Very well,” Rester says. “I’m going to bed for a few hours. Please call me if you need anything.”

Rester stands and walks across the room. Before he leaves, though, he picks a box of tissues off the table by the door and sets it beside Near. Alarmed, Near touches his cheek. It’s still wet, although he is no longer crying.

—

The next morning, Lidner and Rester’s faces are grim when they enter the room. They greet each other in muted voices, and wait. Gevanni calls in, and Near has Lidner set him up on the laptop, leaving the other screens blank. He picks up the microphone and calls Light Yagami.

“L…” he says. He hopes this is the last time he ever has to address the imposter like that.

“Yes?”

“Sorry to interrupt, but… we’re going to meet…” He pauses and glares up at the screen. “On the 28th at 1 PM. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“So, tomorrow, the 28th…”

“Yes.”

He hangs up.

_I’m going to bury you._

—

It’s just a notebook.

An ordinary notebook with a black cover—the strange grey letters at the top look like nothing more than smudges. This one has no rules written in it. Near turns the pages quickly, scanning each one. They’re all in Mikami’s handwriting, further proof that the notebook can be torn without endangering those who have touched it. Light Yagami has carefully eliminated any trace of his own maneuvering before giving the notebook to Mikami. Mello’s name is not in the notebook. Takada, then. It still doesn’t matter. Only Kira matters.

It is 7 AM on January 28. Near looks up at the screen. Mikami hasn’t yet left his house. He will retrieve the fake notebook soon.

Gevanni has only had two hours’ sleep in days, so he is taking a quick nap in one of the other rooms. Lidner is transporting Mogi and Misa Amane. Rester has excused himself for a moment without giving a reason—calling his stepson, no doubt. Near is alone. He looks down at the floor in front of him. There is his mask of L, and his puppets, and the Death Note. And there is a pen.

L wouldn’t do this. Neither would Mello—not because he would find it immoral, but because it’s cheating. It’s not _really_ winning if you cheat. But Near isn’t his father or his brother. They’re dead. They lost. He wants to win.

He picks up the pen, opens the Death Note to a blank page, and writes with slow, careful strokes.

_Mikami Teru, suicide. Takes a notebook out of his security deposit box, without suspecting it or testing it in any way, and brings it to the Yellow Box Warehouse. He writes the names of everyone he sees in the warehouse, except for the person he believes to be Kira. Dies in prison 10 days later._

He sets the pen down. It’s done.

He doesn’t feel any different than he did before. He looks up at the screen—Mikami doesn’t look any different, either. Then Near looks down at the notebook again and considers his options. He will probably be able to burn the notebooks quickly, once he can convince the Japanese police that the last rule is false. Even so, he should hide the evidence, just in case.

He reaches for the kit he used to make the mask, takes out a utility knife, and carefully slices out the page he wrote on, and then a smaller square with just his handwriting. The rest of the paper, he will burn—the smaller piece he will hold on to for now, in case destroying it might undo its effect. He folds it up small and tucks it inside the Takada puppet. No one will notice it there.

Near stands and takes the remaining scraps of paper to the trash can. He strikes a match against the box and burns them. The smell evokes a memory—he thinks of all those days, kneeling on the floor of Roger’s office with Mello, clutching at a letter. It feels so long ago… He sits down in one of the chairs and closes his eyes. He wants to hear the bells again. The room is quiet, and he strains his ears. Surely if he listens hard enough….

“Near.” He opens his eyes. Commander Rester and Gevanni are standing before him, their faces somber. “It’s time.”

He glances at the clock.

“Yes.”

Near affixes the mask of L to his face. It’s time.

—

The warehouse is silent when Light Yagami’s heart finally stops.

Near wasn’t anticipating an outcome like this, but that does not mean he is unsatisfied. Killed by his own hubris, his own ally, the same type of murder weapon he used to such devastating effect… yes. He is content with that. But he still doesn’t know if he feels any better than he did yesterday.

The shinigami looks around at them all and flashes an eerie grin. He spreads his black wings and launches himself up into the air, through the ceiling, and then he is gone. Commander Rester leads a weeping Mikami outside, to the car they have waiting. Matsuda has tears in his eyes, too, and grief and anger are warring on his face.

“He wasn’t—all bad,” Matsuda forces out behind clenched teeth. “I know Kira is evil, but Light…”

“It is hard to reconcile Kira’s actions with someone we called a colleague and a friend. But we shouldn’t expect L’s successor to understand,” Aizawa says in a gentle admonishment. He glances at Near out of the corner of his eye. “You must hate him more than most—after all, he killed your mentor.”

Near considers this. Does he hate Kira? Yes. Yes, undoubtedly he does, but Aizawa’s reasoning strikes him as insufficient. One cannot become L’s successor until the incumbent dies. This is an inevitability that Near was always prepared for. The death of his mentor inspired grief, but not hatred.

He might have hated Kira on behalf of his father, but Near has never really had a father. He had a teddy bear, a birthday card, and a few words scrawled on the back of a photograph. He has been mourning his father since he was three years old, and L’s death has finally given him permission to stop.

Near looks down at the pile of puppets at his feet. He picks up the Mello puppet and cups it in his palm. Mello’s body is ash, and so is the last remaining photograph of him. There will be no grave and no obituaries. There is a legacy that will go no further than this room—and for most of these people it is a fractured and incomplete legacy, at that. But Near will remember.

He looks at the sad, crumpled body of Light Yagami lying in a pool of blood, and he hates it more than he has ever hated anything.

“I do hate Kira, but that’s not why,” Near says. His voice is as calm and emotionless as always, but his words send a wave of shock through the room.

“It's because he killed my brother.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _The Justice card represents justice, fairness, truth and the law. You are being called to account for your actions and will be judged accordingly...You need to ask yourself, “Do I stand by my decisions and accept the consequences of my actions?” If you cannot, then dig deeper, plunging into the shadows of what is right and wrong, until you find the place where you can stand in integrity and strength._ ([source](https://www.biddytarot.com/tarot-card-meanings/major-arcana/justice/))


End file.
